


The Past That Never Leaves You

by Telaryn



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, BAMF Natasha Romanov, Brainwashing, Clint Needs a Hug, Drugs, Gen, Guns, Mind Control, Natasha Needs a Hug, Past Brainwashing, Past Relationship(s), Presumed Dead, Red Room, Temporary Amnesia, Villains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-24
Updated: 2014-06-24
Packaged: 2018-02-06 01:13:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1838995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Telaryn/pseuds/Telaryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While trying to rescue Natasha from the grip of the Institute for Rehabilitative Therapy, Steve and Clint discover that some poisons are harder to root out and destroy than others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Past That Never Leaves You

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [White Blank Page](https://archiveofourown.org/works/503738) by [AlliSnow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlliSnow/pseuds/AlliSnow). 



> Written for the [2014 Be-Compromised Remix Exchange](http://be-compromised.livejournal.com/401012.html) I've never done a remix before, so when this exchange was announced I was excited to try. I signed up, got my assignment in turn...
> 
> ...and panicked.
> 
> [Allisnow](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AlliSnow/pseuds/AlliSnow) is somebody I have referred to in the past as "the Michelangelo of the Clintasha fandom". White Blank Page in particular is literally the best case fic I've ever read - so good that I originally planned on avoiding it all together, instead opting for a remix of [Out is Through](http://archiveofourown.org/works/435221).
> 
> While I was working on that one I decided to reread White Blank Page - primarily because I hadn't read it in a while, but also because I wanted to make absolutely sure I wasn't avoiding the potential to tell a story that was in me to tell. A lot of times when I'm inspired to write a fic it's because I've seen an "entry point" in canon that allows me to slide in, do my work and then leave.
> 
> I found that point in White Blank Page during my reread when I started drawing mental parallels between Kamala Menesh and Yelena Belova, Natasha's "sister" in the Red Room. What resulted wasn't a perfect "what if" by any means, but is definitely a story I am proud to say was inspired by allisnow's amazing storytelling.

Fate’s guiding hand has led her to this moment. Witten dead in the brush at her feet, Captain America in her grasp – Kamala smiles as she loads a tranquilizer dart into her backup weapon. Hundreds of girls before her, including Romanoff herself, and she will be the one to finally put everything right.

“Why kill him?” Rogers asks. “The Institute… it was finished anyway.”

“Maybe,” Kamala acknowledges, her thoughts no longer on Fisher and Witten and the small-minded pretenders trying to walk in the footsteps of giants. There is only one person living with the genius to continue Erkskine’s experiment to its logical conclusion. “Even if they’re finished,” she adds, recognizing the need to keep Rogers interested, keep him talking. “I’m not.”

Once she has the Captain in her power, everything will change.  
*********************  
He is the serpent at the heart of God’s Garden, waiting patiently for his Eve to come home. Tracking Barton and Rogers to the Muir is surprisingly easy, although it rankles spending money for something he could have commanded from any of his children at the height of his power with a word and a glance.

 _All things in due course.._ Access to the men’s suite requires another outlay of cash, but the possibility of having Erkskine’s raw data in his grasp at last is worth any expense.

The sound of fumbling at the door draws his attention. He sits up straighter in the wing-backed chair, knowing that he will be the first thing she sees. Having the chance to study Steve Rogers at last may be worth any price, but having his favorite child home and at his side once more is worth everything.

Recognition glows in her beautiful eyes as the door opens, but other than that her expression never falters. His pride in her swells even greater than he would have thought possible. Even though her conscious mind could not have known he was near, at a cell-deep level he knows that she was waiting for him. No matter what lesser beings do to her, what kind of paper doll they lay on top of his creation, her truest self – his Natashka – knows always where she belongs and to whom.

The man at her side in an ill-fitting suit is not worthy of her, even though he imagines he has a claim on her loyalty and affection. “What the hell?” is his predictably crude response on seeing the intruder in his room, and a heartbeat later there is a gun in his hand, pointed with surprising steadiness and accuracy at the kill spot between the serpent’s eyes.

Two hits he will never remember – each one landing with nearly inhuman precision – and Barton crumples to the floor unconscious. She stoops to check his pulse, securing his weapon first, and then rising to secure the door to the suite before turning to face the only father she has ever known. “Papa.”

He imagines warmth in her voice as she addresses him for the first time in decades and in turn lets her see his pride in the woman she has become. Beckoning her to him with two fingers, he takes the SHIELD agent’s weapon from her and sets it on a nearby table. “Finish up Natashka,” he says, tilting his face up slightly so she can kiss him on his cheek. “Agent Barton will be coming back to Volgograd with us.”

If a shadow crosses her face at the sound of the pretender’s name, it quickly passes.  
********************  
Aten

How did I not see this coming? Ivan Petrovitch alive and here – welcoming Natasha home as if this had been the plan all along! My heart is beating so fast I’m certain the monster will hear it and find me. If he learns about me, knows that I’m watching, death will be the kindest treatment I can expect at his hands.

 _“Agent Barton will be coming to Volgograd with us.”_ Time seems to stop and every muscle in my body tightens as I wait for the trigger to activate, for this to be the slip that ends it all. Even Natasha hesitates for a fraction of a second, turning Barton’s name over in her mind, trying to understand why it tastes like home.

The moment passes, and she begins the fairly laborious process of dragging her partner up into a chair – managing somehow not to look ridiculous in heels and a $5000 designer dress while she does it. While Barton slumbers on, she searches his bag and comes up with the expected zip ties. Terror is still robbing me of my ability to think clearly, but you don’t need to be a Captain America to understand that the window of opportunity for the good guys to act is closing rapidly.

“Wake up, Barton,” I growl through my clenched teeth. Natasha has already secured his ankles to the chair – if she succeeds in binding his wrists, it’s all over.

 _“Wake up.”_  
**********************************  
The command vibrates against his skin, chasing away the soft, peaceful blackness. Clint resists as long as he can, but memory of the man he’d never expected to lay eyes on again bleeds into an awareness of his wrists and ankles secured to a straight-backed wooden chair.

 _”Wake up, damn you!”_ The harshly whispered words are followed so quickly by the back of Natasha’s hand cracking sharply across his face that he isn’t entirely certain he heard them at all.

She’s stepped back from him in the time it takes to convince his body to obey. An old man moves into his line of sight as he raises his head and opens his eyes at last. He carries a silver topped cane in one hand more for affectation than actual need, even though Clint understands his age to be somewhere north of Captain America’s without the benefit of having spent seventy plus years in cryogenic suspension. “How?” he manages to say, and just getting the one word out sets off an ache in his skull that screams concussion.

 _Wouldn’t be the first time,_ he thinks fatalistically, licking his lips and preparing to try again. It wouldn’t even be the first one he’d suffered at Natasha’s hands. “How are you still alive?”

Ivan Petrovitch, creator of the Soviet Red Room and the closest thing Natasha can legitimately claim as a father, smiles at him and Clint can’t stop the full body shudder that shivers across his skin in response. “Agent Barton – how good to see you again. I thank you for returning my Natashka to me.”

At the sound of his name, Clint’s attention ticks quickly over to his partner. She is frowning, but otherwise the sound of his name doesn’t appear to be causing her any actual physical distress. Satisfied that they haven’t done anything irreparable yet, he redirects his focus to Petrovitch. “She isn’t yours, old man. She was too strong for your mind-raping and your drug protocols. She walked away years ago and never looked back.”

Petrovitch is clearly amused by his outburst. “Perhaps you think she belongs to you then? That she _loves_ you?” He clearly means the question to wound, but Clint flashes on the moment after “Hanna” kissed him and he realized the difference between her kiss and the ones Nat herself had gifted him with in a hotel room in New York a lifetime ago.

Maybe she doesn’t love him – love is for children, after all – but the feelings that bind them to each other are the most real and precious thing in his life.

“Fortunately,” Petrovitch continues, still smiling at Clint, “the work Sloane Fisher and her people have accomplished at the Institute means that I no longer need to restrict my work to the fairer sex.” Looking at Natasha, he reaches up and tenderly brushes a few loose strands of hair back from her face. It’s a level of intimacy that in Clint’s experience she allows no one and yet she endures Petrovitch’s caress without flinching.

Clint pulls instinctively against his bonds and his heart skips a beat as he feels the heavy plastic encircling his left wrist shift. “Is that supposed to be some sort of recruiting pitch?” he asks, altering his body language to draw the old man’s attention away entirely to his face. “Because I ain’t buyin’.” _Look into my eyes, you son of a bitch. See how much I want to kill you right now._

He wraps his fingers around the arm of the chair as best he can, feeling along the zip tie until he touches a tear in the plastic. Against all odds, Natasha has snugged the tie over a loose nail, and the metal edge has dug into the plastic hard enough to separate it. He flexes his wrist experimentally and is rewarded with another fraction of an inch of give.

“Lucky for you,” Petrovitch croons, clearly not noticing what Clint is trying to accomplish, “what you will or won’t buy has nothing to do with this.”  
***************************************  
Steve knows that he’s been in tighter spots, but worry about Barton and Romanoff is clouding his thinking, putting him off his game. His best guess puts it at twenty minutes since Clint texted him saying that he and Natasha were on their way back to the Muir. If Witten was her target, Manesh should be looking to escape. _If she was going after Natasha…_

“You know that Agent Romanoff is no longer on the property, right?”

Laughter filters through the darkened trees. “Natasha Romanoff is not my mission, Captain Rogers. You are.”

“Great.” Steve can barely refrain from rolling his eyes. “Okay,” he concedes, rolling with the punches as best he can, “who are you working for then?” On a mission where things have gone steadily from bad to worse, a new player is definitely in his top five ‘things I would rather live without’.

“The man who has gotten closer than any other living or dead to replicating Abraham Erkskine’s great work!”

A blur of movement catches Steve’s eye – if he is Manesh’s real target, his best play is to lead her as far away from the party and civilians as he can. Hoping that Witten’s hapless date has been smart enough and quick enough to make it to safety, he begins to run.  
**********************  
Nothing matters anymore. Bishop…Barton…whoever the man bound to the chair really is, he will be unmade just as she was once upon a time. She wants to speak, wants to tell him about the clarity of purpose he will find when Papa remakes him into a perfect weapon.

It isn’t her place. Papa wouldn’t be pleased, and after so many years outside of his watchful eye Natasha realizes that she wants Petrovitch’s approval more than anything. Life as one of Papa’s favorites is safer than the alternative.

An idle thought drifts across her mind, and Natasha wonders where Aten is – whether the woman found a ride home from the party, and whether her survival instincts are strong enough to keep her out of Petrovitch’s view. The Red Room is where Natasha belongs. It molded her, shaped her – she knows nothing else. Aten deserves better.

“As soon as I have Erkskine’s research under my control, you will walk with Gods Agent Barton.” Petrovitch takes a step forward. “And you will thank me for it.”

Somewhere she understands that things are far from over, that whoever this man is to her he is far from beaten. Knowing doesn’t quicken her response however, when he suddenly pushes himself backwards, the chair falling over to the floor. Natasha and Petrovitch both flinch away as the wood frame explodes on impact; by the time she recovers enough to take the three steps that would put her on top of him he’s rolled clear of the debris and is on his feet ready to fight.

“Don’t kill him.” Papa’s order rings sharp in her ears as she closes with her target.

 _Fine,_ Natasha thinks. She’s done that before. It’s only a little more effort.

“I won’t underestimate you.” The stranger’s words are as much warning as they are statement, and unexpected enough that they bring her up short.

“Everybody underestimates me.” It is the central truth of her life, the secret of her success. The idea that this man would challenge it is ridiculous. “You are a fool.”

“It’s not the first time you’ve said that,” he replies sadly, nevertheless settling into his stance.  
************************************  
Aten

They are going to fight. My stomach twists into hard, painful knots as I think about the last time they were forced to do battle with each other – Barton the aggressor that time, Romanoff his target. He won’t go any easier on her now than she did on him then. She wouldn’t respect him if he did, assuming she didn’t just kill him outright in disgust.

But of course she is under orders not to kill him this time, I remember. Petrovitch wants him for the program. The idea that the old madman is confident enough to ply his craft on an adult male when his entire protocol was geared towards the drugs working best on young girls is a sobering thing. Then I remember that he has one of his agents pursuing Steve Rogers. The Captain has always been the Holy Grail for anyone trying to replicate Abraham Erkskine’s work – of course the flaw in any plan to study him has always been, how do you contain him?

In the meantime the clock is running down on Agent Romanoff. The drug that will dissolve the trigger is somewhere nearby, but any attempt I make at finding where Barton has stashed it will result in my discovery. Petrovitch and Natasha herself must be neutralized before any of the other critical steps in this process can be taken.

The first blow is hers. He blocks it, stepping in on her left side intending to tangle her up. She slithers free, but the zen-like tranquility of her features is gone. He came in deliberately on her weak side and she knows it. Her skin is flushed, and her eyes are blazing with anger.

There is no choice – she will have to be sedated before the Institute’s drug protocol can be administered. Barton no longer has the darts he prepared and carried to the party with him. It will be up to me to restore them to his possession, preferably without drawing any undue attention.  
******************************  
Going on the offense wasn’t his first choice, but Clint is all too aware of the distinctive throbbing in his head that signals concussion – albeit a mild one. If he lets Natasha in close enough to take a head shot he’s going down and he’s very likely not getting up again.

She drops suddenly, going for a sweep of his legs. Reacting instinctively, Clint leaps over the blow, using his momentum to lean in and grab her by the hair. Her cry is part surprise, part anger, but he uses the brief advantage to pull her in close and try for a hold he’s reasonably sure will immobilize her.

Just as she hits his chest, something small and hard is pressed into his hand. _”Do it, Clint. Do it now.”_ Without stopping to register how or why things have suddenly shifted back in his favor, he takes the tranquilizer dart and jams it into the point where her neck slopes into her shoulder.

She swears in Russian as he lets go and backpedals – trying to put as much distance between them as he can until the sedative has done its work.

It’s quick – he’s grateful for that small mercy after everything they’ve been through. Their eyes meet briefly – her gaze a heart-breaking tangle of emotions. He tries to let her know without words how sorry he is that he couldn’t find a better way to save her.

Then her eyes roll up and she collapses. Clint forces himself not to react, not to try and break her fall – Natasha would be the first to tell him that he has no business closing with her until he’s certain she’s been neutralized.

Not to mention, there is another threat still loose in the room. “Do you know how long I’ve had my eye on you Agent Barton?” Clint turns to see Petrovitch has his gun raised in a terrifyingly steady aim – both for the age Clint knows he is and the age he appears to be. “You are different.” He glances at Natasha’s crumpled form. “She sees it – it’s why she’s drawn to you. The two of you are two halves of a whole the likes of which this world has never seen.” His smile grows wider, and Clint feels a surge of nausea in his gut. “With Erkskine’s data in my control at last, I will lead you both to your fullest potential.”

“You know, I’m really sick of people referring to me as ‘data’.”

Relief washes through Clint in a rush, staggering him so completely that he drops weakly to his knees. He’s not sure how Rogers got into the suite without any of them noticing, although he suspects he and Natasha fighting would have been distracting enough for anything except entrance by way of the front door.

“Put it down old man,” Steve orders, gesturing at Petrovitch with his own gun. “And if I were you, I’d do it without saying anything. I’m not in a good mood right now.”

Time ticks by as nobody moves or says a word. Finally Petrovitch gives a small shrug, dropping the Glock. As soon as he hears the ‘thud’ of the weapon hitting the carpet, Clint moves – scrambling on his hands and knees to Natasha’s side. Her pulse is strong, her breathing steady and Clint utters a silent prayer of thanks to whoever watches over misfits like them.

“How is she?” Steve asks, recalling Clint to the chaos that still swirls around them.

Drawing a deep, steadying breath, Clint nods. “She’s good.” He jerks his head towards where he last saw his duffel bag. “Get me some ties – I don’t know how long this is going to keep her out.”

Still keeping his gun trained on Petrovitch, Steve rifles the bag, coming up with a fistful of the black plastic ties. He tosses a few in Clint’s direction and moves toward their prisoner with the rest. “This guy’s supposed to be dead, am I right?” he asks, tying the old man’s wrists and then crouching to bind his ankles to the chair itself.

Clint gathers Natasha’s limp body into his arms and pushes to his feet. “As soon as I get her immobilized, I’m going to fix that.”

It isn’t what Steve expects to hear, and Clint silently marvels at his ability to still believe in a world where good and evil are clearly delineated. “Clint, you can’t. He’s secured – let Fury have him.”

Petrovitch snorts derisively at the sound of the director’s name, but Clint doesn’t let himself be distracted. “She thought he was dead,” he tries to explain. “Petrovitch is at the heart of every nightmare Natasha has, everything she regrets about her life. The _least_ I owe her is a world where he isn’t breathing.”

“You’re talking about murder.” The words are an accusation, but Clint doesn’t care. “Cold blooded murder – it’s not right.”

Clint tenses as Natasha began to stir in his arms. “I’m talking about the only kind of justice that exists for people like us.” He resettles her as best he can. “I need you to administer the drug. I can’t do it, not with everything Aten told us. While you take care of that, I’ll take care of ‘Papa’ over there.” His heart is pounding, and he prays Steve will understand and not fight him on this.

He’s prepared to stand his ground, but Steve Rogers is more than his muscles and all American good looks. “Has Natasha ever thanked you for fighting her battles?”

Clint can’t stop his cheeks from heating up. Of course Steve knows the answer otherwise he wouldn’t have asked the question. “She needs you, Clint,” Rogers continues. “On your game and at her side, not off making her choices for her.” Hanging lazily in the air between them is the implication that if he steals a kill she is entitled to he is no better than any of the other men who have infantilized her over the years.

He’s always sworn he wouldn’t do that. “I’m afraid,” he admits at last. “What if Aten is right and the drug saves her life but wipes out every memory she has of our life together?”

Steve’s expression is understanding as he closes the distance that separates them. “You’re the best chance she has of recovering the woman she wants to be. If you walk away from this fight now – win or lose – you will never forgive yourself.” He reaches out and puts a hand on Clint’s arm. “Come with me. Petrovitch isn’t going anywhere.”


End file.
